Plymouth High School - Pilgrim Yearbook (Plymouth, MA)

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I PILGRIM Zfjww ---Ag, g pp p pg ,gm A NEW LITERARY GENIUS? KAY, have you ever heard of Ger- trude Stein ? No, I don't think so. She isn't that new torch singer with Whitermanfs is she ? You don't know anything. Why Gertrude St-ein is one of the foremost writers of the day. She's even consid- ered a genius by many of her readers. You think only of jazz orchestras. Well, what does she write ? Oh, she's marvelous-listen! 'What has my life in America been, it has been the doing of everything that I never have done. Never have done, never could have done, never could have done again, that is the way my life in America began and is begun and is go- ig on.' What do you think of that? Terrible-put on Rudy Vallee. No, its about time you became in- terested in good literature. And, Ger- trude Stein beingone of the best, we shall begin with her. Now will you listen? 'I cannot beli-eve that America has changed, many things have come and gone but not really come and not really gone but they are there and that per- haps does make the America that I left and the America I am to find different but not really dif-l' Stop! What is she trying to do? Make up her mind ? Certainly not, stupid. She means that she finds America different but not really different. 66011 !77 Stop interrupting and listen and s-ee if you can tell me what this means. 'And then it began. The doing every- thing that I had n-ever done, and the liking doing everything everything any- thing that I had never done. That be- gan. And this is the way it began.' What does it mean? You're hopeless. It means she's go- ing to begin something. Well, why b-eat around the bush a- bout it? Begin began I b-egun and began what begin to begun! Why all the cere- mony ? Because anybody can say 'I will be- gin', but not many can say it the way she does. Why, that's art. Yeah? Well, I give up. Turn on Rudy Vallee. No, I'll make you appreciate this if it takes years. Listen. 'And that is what America is, is and is and it is beautiful, beautiful in the American way, beautiful just in this way.' Oh! Is it? Then why all the repeti- tion? Because repetition is an art. There aren't many people who can use repe- tition and not bore the reader. And you think Gertrude .Stein can do it? Well, I don't. And don't you think I'm going to listen to more of that art . I'd rather read Homer. Maybe I'd get something out of that. All I get from Gertrude Stein's writing is dizziness. Now will you please turn on Rudy Vallee? Now I give up. R. BONGIOVANNI ,35 THE DERELICT MARY Suber, stooped and middle- ag-ed, earned her meager salary standing in half-lighted doorways in darkened slum districts gathering in- formation about the narcotics traffic. Her sallow, wrinkled face with its pierc- ing black, sorrowful eyes that once had been sparkling and happy, her pale, sneering lips, and her hollow cheeks which had long since lost the ruddy glow of youth were nearly hidden by a tangled mass of stringy, gray hair. She cared little for life. Some people thought Mary peculiar- at least those did who thought of her at all. A little gone up here! they would exclaim with derision, pointing an un- kempt hand in the direction of their heads. Her income should have been larger, for her services were invaluable, but all Mary Suber wanted was just enough to live in the simplest way. Frequently she went to federal headquarters or to police stations with her reports, but the occupants of the boarding house sup- posed that she was on parole-as many of them were. Consequently they asked no questions when no explanations were offered. Some day, boys, she often remarked to the police, I'1l get mine. This sure is a dangerous game. Mary Suber was bitter, hard, cynicalg the world had been ve-ry cruel to her. Once she, too, had been happy, unbeliev- ably happy. It had frightened her to have had so much-a fine husband, a sturdy little son all their own, a modest home, and the prospects of a gloriously happy future. M'ary's husb-and had been employed in the same business in which she now found herself. It hadn't seemed very dangerous theng in fact, he had Continued on pgae 30

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THE PILGRIIVI 27 tired and scrappy you of yesterday may have been a symptom. The day on which you first get the grippe is begun as usual. You come down to breakfast feeling at odds with the world. After one look at your Weary face, someone feels your forehead and says rather decisively, Better stay in bed to-day. You don't Want to be sick, you know. In vain you listlessly remonstrate about the amount of work you'll have to make up if you're absentg nev-ertheless, it's rather a relief to go off to bed. Once there with a pile of books beside you as a sop to your conscience, you lack even the ambition to pick them up. You lie too Weary eve-n to look at anything. Your head seems about to split. All in- terest or anxiety concerning the work you'1l miss flies. For a few days you li-e there, not even eating, for who wants to eat when he has the grippe? After two or three days, you recover, or so the doctor says, and sit up weakly in a chair. By this time you really feel as though you could read a few pages and nibble at some food. After three days of this, you decid-e that you'd better return to school or the work you've missed will be too much for you to conquer. Lacking ambition, you return. The make-up work and your regular work almost send you back to bed. You struggle along, going to bed at eight o'clock every night and doing almost nothing. Yetslowly you recover from the attack, like th-e Irishman who was sick sixteen days after h-e got better. ELIZABETH BELCHER '36 THE KNITTING I-IABIT IT'S sweeping the country! Perhaps it is more appropriate to say it's wind- ing its way. Have you a ball of yarn in your home? If not, hasten to your favorite store, even the drug store will do, and get your supply now. Don't you know that it's very smart and ultra- modern to knit? Perhaps your ability dictates a five-inch pocket-book, but it serves its purpose. On wintry nights, gathered before a hot stove with faces burning and feet freezing, the feminine sex is repre- sented by all ages. Thirteen-year-old sister is making a tam like the one that Greta Garbo wore in her latest picture, while her older sister, who is th1irty-five- Well, perhaps thirty, is making one like Shirley 'Temple's to obtain that youthful effect. When they have finished, the re- sult will probably not be at all like the original, but that doesn't matter. It is the satisfaction you get from being able to say, I knitted a tam. So, get your yarn and begin now. It's never too late. ELSIE IVIONTI '36 SECURITY Gazing at the moon, I fell asleep And dreamed. And in my dream Was horror- I knew not why! I woke Trembling with fright, And saw In the heavens above Serene and calm The moon. And seeing, Slept, And dreamed no more. IXIARY GODDARD '36 THE WIND'S CHALLENGE Un a summer's night it whispers of moonlight on murmuring lagoons. It breathes a tale of pulsating life, Of a heav-en laced with gold. I must gog let me follow you! On a stormy night it thunders of foam- ing seas and life's adventures. It beckons, the tumultuous spirit leaps high. But I am afraid- I must stay at home and envy you through my window. VIRGINIA WooD '36 SUNRISE A long line of golden light divides King Neptunels domain From th-e vast, immeasurable skyg Like a hungry flame, the sun creeps up into God's firmament To blaze down upon the turbulent sea. The white caps glisten like diamonds Under the rays of Nature's to1'ch bearerg The boisterous East Wind dashes the emerald waters Against the rocks along the beach, Throwing high a shower of spray- A glorious new day has come! PR1sCILLA MCCosII '36

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THE PILGRIM Sophomore Poetry Page ! WHEN DO I MISS YOU MOST? g When do I miss you most? l 2 It's hard to say l I Whether it be at morning light Q Or close of day, I I see the books you used to love, S i I hear a song- i And grief beats on my lonely heart I i Its deadly gong. 3 When d-o I miss you most? U g I do not know: ' Whether I think of you or not ' My heart will go g In sad regret, 2 I miss you most whene'er I try, g Dear, to forget. Along the ways we used to love 2 MOON Slowly and majestically with great ar- gent shield She climbs to her throne in the heavens, Long shafts of silver rays Illuminate a garden rare, Turning the fountain spray Into a misty white veil. The lady of the skies looks benignly down, Beaming soft radiance over all, Sending forth her golden wealth, Spinning a web of moon glory Around the earthlings below, Turning the world Into enchantment. LOUISE PIERSON '37 , J. O'KEEFFE 37. ! i,,,.,,-.,-,.,.-,- -,,-,,-,,-,,-. , .ibllillilliiDUilYiUiUTUilYlUilliU1lfiwilii Y ! Vi '10iUiUi g THE HIKER ' Broad roads, narrow roads-roads that g twist and twine, Winding like a ribbon through the oak and pine, : Up hill, down vale, by the lonely sea,- Little paths of heart's delight calling out to me: I Wanderlust's a heritage--rain and Wind and shine, Byways and highways ever shall be C 1 mine, Up dell, down dale, by moor and mire and burn,- I Where the heart holds festival, wander- ing feet will r-eturn. HAZEL CLEARY '37 i 03:1 1 gp 11.5 1 3 1 gp 1,1 :oiu3u1ogn14 gr gl 1131 QL 1 1 1 E i -4 ' 1 i Purple and gold the setting sun i Sinks down o'er the peaceful sea, i And into the heart of a lonely one i Comes peace and tranquillity. Q For the day with all its cares and Q strife i Fades with that calming sightg i Ang the heart that bears the burdens 2 or 1 e 3 Is eased and at once made light. Q ELDA GUARALDI '37 ,ibllitvilliblri it ioinioirliuioicritaiu? 4 uioioi ini I heard a note like the thrush's song Floating on the silent air, 'Mid the dazzling light Of the sun so bright,- And the singer was young and fair. But though she sang with a voice of gold, She could not hold me long, And to my heart No joy could impart,- For her soul was not in her song. FRANCES WIRZBURGER '37 1' riruininiuioiuix :nitric xi